Even an Object Can Tell a Story
by darksupernatural
Summary: Dean carries the one small, completely overlooked thing both responsible for saving and destroying his life many times over. It's so familiar to him that he knows every dent and scratch, every story etched into the metal. And like Dean, this object chooses to tell only when asked.


**A/N: I've gotten a lot of PM's and emails wondering where I've been and when I will be writing again. I've explained to a few people but I figured this was the easiest way to do so. I have been slowly getting back into the writing, in fact working on a longer fic and this one shot when time and life allows, but here is that explanation so many of you have asked for. **

**On March 9 of this year, my husband of 9 years and 9 months lost his battle with cancer. He was 47. At 32, I have had a lot to contend with on my own since then and I still have a lot to take care of and get resolved, so the writing will happen when the writing will happen. I cannot enforce my usual deadlines or write and post as frequently as I used to. It's just not possible these days. I hope all of you waiting so long for something from me choose to understand and not lose interest, but I will promise you that I will continue to write hopefully enjoyable fics as my life allows.**

**Until I post again, know that I am as good as can be expected, being taken care of friends, family and special people in my life. Thank you all for your support and I hope you enjoy the story to follow. **

**Even an Object Can Tell a Story  
**

The striker scratched off the top of the flint with a familiar sound, a blue and orange flame brightening a small circle of the night and the tips of some dirt smudged, calloused fingers. The wind picked up and made the flame dance and gutter but it stayed burning bright, soon regaining its height as the gust subsided. A hissing growl followed the sound, an indication of approaching danger and very unwelcome company.

"Suck flames, bitch." And with that the lighter left the fingertips in the dark, disappearing with its glow into the six foot deep hole that yawned towards hell just inches from a pair of black boots that were highlighted just for a split second by that small flame. The night brightened, flames climbing out of the hole like multi-hued flowers sticking out of a vase, and the growl turned into a shriek of agony and a flash of flames seen over a leather clad shoulder.

Weary, the figure crouched down beside the warmth of the fire, green eyes staring at the flames as if he could absorb the heat and color through the very windows to his cold, gray soul and change something deep inside himself. Finally the flames died, using up all the fuel that had been unearthed in the form of old bones, tattered, rotten satin and decayed pine planks. And there among the ash was a charred lump of metal, still glowing dimly red as the heat faded from it. When it too disappeared into the darkness, booted feet landed hard in the grave, stirring up ash that coated his jeans and tickled his throat as he pulled in a breath of stale smoke and charred earth. He reached down, brushing ash away from the metal and picked it up. It was blackened by soot and the metal had rainbowed from the intensity of the heat but it was still recognizable. The lump was clenched briefly in a fist, warming the chilled fingers, before it got slipped into the back pocket of a pair of dark, dirty jeans.

X

Tears swam in the green eyes that stared, pain filled, at the shrouded bundle lying still, cold and silent on the pyre before him. Bone weary, shaking fingers dipped into a hip pocket, brushing the frayed material at the top, a symbol of just how much the thing stored deep in the folds of those worn blue jeans was actually reached for. The fingers steadied as they closed around the small rectangle and removed it from its hiding place. "I really…" he swallowed hard, "…don't wanna do this." Beneath the pyre, logs soaked with kerosene awaited the _snick, scratch _and _flare. _In one smooth motion of a thumb, all three happened in a mere second of time during a night that seemed endless, a stretch of bleak hopelessness that looped back onto itself to form a dark eternity of time that sucked everything in and gleefully lost it in the abyss. The flame flickered, pushing that darkness away from the hand that held the small rectangle of metal as it warmed in fingers that seemingly would never be warm again. Would never stop shaking again.

He bent slowly to a crouch, his finger rubbing over the story etched in the metal by flame, grit, and hard travel; a hard, tiring life, and the flame caught a single tear as it dropped from long eyelashes, making the drop glint like a diamond before it hit the South Dakota dirt. Breath burst from trembling lips and the flame dipped and danced, but still remained. And the hand still caressing the metal held that valiant light to the soaked wood, watching it spread and grow, greedily consuming fuel and more slowly, the most important part of his life. He stepped back as the heat grew, not wanting to feel warm ever again.

"I don't have any whiskey. This'll have to do." Fingers, steady as rocks, pulled a rectangle of tarnished metal from a pocket, leaving smears of blood across the denim. Those fingers fumbled, smearing more crimson over the peacock colored metal and adding ruby to the kaleidoscope of color, and for the first time ever ears twitched at the sound of the twin _scratches _that it took before that familiar flare lit up the grimace on the face sitting so near his side. Green eyes met hazel briefly, full of concern, before they narrowed in concentration as those bloody, steady fingers passed a needle through the blue of the flame until it glowed cherry red, the smell of burning leather mingling with the dankness of the cave and the iron tang of blood.

Finally happy, those fingers deftly threaded cotton string through the cooling eye of the needle and green eyes danced over the weary face in front of him again. "Brace yourself." He was met with a sharp intake of breath, quick nod and tightening lines bracketing thin lips.

X

The wind howled and made the flame trying to burn so valiantly gutter low inside the vented metal that surrounded it, like a child ducking behind his mother's skirts for protection. Finally the blast of air shifted just slightly and the orange soldier once again stood straight in the face of its oncoming battle. Shaky, but still deft fingers tossed the much treasured little lump of metal outward from where it rested in his hand, becoming his only link to safety. It flew true, disappearing in a small halo of light beneath the ground that had been excavated in front of him. Pained eyes caught the brief red orange flare that defined the rectangle of disturbed earth and a flare of heat before closing and succumbing to the darkness that was no longer dark.

The sun was its own valiantly marching soldier, just beginning to stand tall in the sky in shades of orange and red just like its tiny counterpart when morning chilled fingers reached for that little rectangle of metal, sifting through the ash until they found their mark. The lid closed with a _snick_ and it was tucked into a pocket not used to carrying it. Those same hands made quick work of filling in the charred rectangle of open earth. Dirt coated, cold fingers found a stubble covered jaw and gripped firmly. "Hey, hey, hey." He said, delivering a tiny shake to the shoulder where his other hand rested. "C'mon man, wake up. You gotta wake up!"

"Mnn…Sammy?" Green eyes opened to slits, pain glazed for a second, before focusing on his brother.

"Yeah. C'mon." Sam tucked his fists into the lapels of Dean's leather jacket, fisting the material and hefting his brother to slightly unsteady feet. "Burnin' daylight." He said as his eyes probed his brother's face for signs of injury. Seeing nothing more than the usual lines of wear and battle fatigue, he seemed satisfied that Dean wasn't gravely injured. One fist released his brother's jacket when he felt Dean take his own weight and dipped into his pocket, pulling out the much abused little scrap of metal. A new scratch and another layer of rainbows decorated the metal, catching the sunlight in a swirl of color. "Here's your lighter." Sam handed it back to its owner. Dean's hand fisted the cool metal, once again thankful that this tiny piece of long used and abused equipment refused to give up the battle to save lives, just like its owner. And just like its owner, the Zippo had another story that it would tell if anyone chose to listen.

**A/N: Thanks for reading. Maybe leave me a review, or at least let me know you're still interested in reading what I post. And remember, anything that someone had that they loved or carried, and they no longer do, can tell a story about that person if you choose to really open your eyes and look.**


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